Four Poems by Irene Hardy 



THE LITTLE BRUSHBIRD 



Thru the little wickets, 



Between the gleams and glooms, 

 Of the manzanita thickets, 



I peer into the private rooms 

 Of the little brushbird, where she plumes 

 Her feathers brown and gray 



Silent at the dawn of day. 

 I watch her and her little neighbors 

 At their early breakfast labors, 

 The while I hear the pipes and tabors 

 Of the pheasants, orioles and larks, 

 Mingled with the robins' pert remarks; 

 And half aware I hear, I hear 

 The thrushes' lyric sweet and clear. 

 But none of these are half so dear 

 As the little brushbird ,brown and gray, 

 Silent at the dawn of day. 



IMPLICATIONS 



This is the birthday of the rose 

 And of the robin's darling brood, 



And yonder flowers with the pose 

 Of lilies in their loveliest mood; 



'Tis the birthday, too, of the butterfly, 

 Bursting at length from her jeweled cell; 



Go search out all that these imply, — 

 No greater thing has earth to tell. 



IN THE SONG OF THE THRUSH 



I heard a thrush 

 Singing in the evening's hush, 

 And tho the day had been darkened, I knew 

 That somewhere the sky had been blue, 

 And that everywhere life had been true 

 To the note in the song of the thrush 

 In the evening's hush ; 



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